The boys reached the shanties, drenched in sweat and breathless. A potent aroma of a tantalising stew began to permeate the air. His stomach growled in response, and he realised just how ravenous he had become.
“I thought we were bringing the wood for breakfast,” he remarked.
“No, no, firewood needs to be dried months beforehand if you don’t want your food smoked. Normally, I gather enough to replace what we used from the stack the day before, but with this much—” Varyan gestured at the rags enveloping the logs, “we’ve got enough to take a day off tomorrow.”
“I see.” Varyan’s reasoning amused him. Though his knowledge of firewood and fires was scant, the pain in his forearms convinced him they were hauling more than plenty.
They ambled alongside a series of dilapidated shacks that appeared long deserted. The wooden planks of the walls were battered, splintered, and riddled with gaps. One shack sported an aperture large enough to fit his head through. Peering inside, he saw only a grimy sheet atop a pile of leaves, occupying half the room’s space. Above this makeshift bed, a rope held clothes aloft. A red-haired girl, about their age, exited the hut in haste, struggling to bind her hair with a white headscarf. Her attire—a red ensemble and pointed brown boots—seemed more apt for the chilly weather and muddy lanes than their rags. It struck him as odd that she wore no trousers, although her garments covered her knees sufficiently to be deemed a dress. Upon spotting the boys, she halted abruptly, her gaze lowered as she bowed to Varyan. Without raising her head, she made a wide berth around them. He looked back to see her heading towards the mansion on the hill, her hair still escaping the headscarf’s hold. Perplexed, he turned to Varyan, who pressed on with his unwavering stride.
“Don’t worry about it too much. The Baron prefers them this way.”
What does he mean? What was that just now?
Varyan didn’t seem like he wanted to talk so he kept his questions to himself. They soon reached the edge of the shanty town. Once the final hut faded from view, he pinpointed the source of the enticing aroma they had pursued all this while. A massive cooking pot sat atop an iron framework over a fire. The fire pit was encircled by makeshift tents fashioned from wooden poles and fabric, flimsy enough to be toppled by a strong gust. He noticed other men in rags, spanning various ages, scattered about the campsite, sipping stew from wooden bowls. Some had already begun wrapping pickaxes in sacks, while the last two stood in line for their breakfast serving.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“Welcome home,” Varyan declared with pride, his warm smile resurfacing. A smile that dispelled negativity and focused on those before him.
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A man at the cooking pot, attending to the stew, was the first to notice them.
“Varyan, what took you so long? The manor servants are all long gone,” the man called.
Varyan replied, “It’s fine, we bumped into Lydia on our way here. They’ll be preoccupied with disciplining her tardiness while we feast.”
The man chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. “They can certainly try.”
Varyan lowered his arms, indicating a spot beside a tent near the fire to unload the logs they had been toting. Once they emptied the rags, he could finally stretch his aching arms with a grateful sigh.
“That’s quite a load of wood, not bad. Did your new friend help you?” the man inquired.
The question piqued interest around the camp. He ceased his stretching to avoid drawing further attention.
“Yes, this is our new arrival,” Varyan confirmed.
A murmur spread through the camp. He caught snippets like ‘dead’ and ‘twenty-six’ from the questions exchanged. He felt more eyes fixed on their spot.
“I wasn’t informed of a newcomer. We’ll need a headcount before we leave. Anyway, you can collect your breakfast from Shadis. He took it to Jacoby’s tent as usual.”
“Splendid,” Varyan said. “Then you can get your meal from Cadmun here. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we must hurry before the Adventurers arrive.”
Varyan patted him on the shoulder and departed without another word. Those Adventurers sure must be something.
The last man in line had just been served. Cadmun gestured for him to approach the pot. He was a tall man with a bald pate and a cleanly shaven face. A broad scar stretched from his right cheek to his collarbone. Much like Varyan and the other men, he appeared underweight.
“Name’s Cadmun Frost. I managed the factory at the Dragon’s Spine for Foreman Blitz before the Adventurers arrived. When we’re in the mines later, heed my words,” Cadmun instructed.
His demeanour was authoritative, yet it felt well-meaning. His scar looks messy. Maybe he had an accident in that factory?
“How do you know I’ll be working in the mines?” he asked.
“They didn’t give you any garments. If you were assigned to the manor, you’d already be too late for breakfast duty anyway. You’d already be at the Slaughterhouse for that. The farmers are on the far side of that hill, tending the fields, so that leaves you with us.”
So the girl from before was a manor servant. She did seem like she was in a rush. What was that about a slaughterhouse? I hope she is doing okay.